Lesbians and Gasoline

As a faithful Jeep owner, I know the quirks and flaws of my vehicle. So, when the Jeep started shifting roughly, I knew it was time to add some transmission fluid. So, I do my diligence, and go to Checker, find the right goo in a bottle and pour it in. Done, right?

Of course not, or this would be a really lame story.

In the course of putting in ATF, I was also doing about thirty-five other things. I was thinking about buying gas, remembering I had homework to do, waiting for my freshly mopped floors to dry, checking on the gypsy-parent’s abandoned house, talking to Mom on the phone, checking with Dad to make sure I had, in fact, poured the ATF in the correct hole under the hood. I had been on the phone with the ‘Rents for about an hour, shootin’ the breeze, catching up on their adventures in the wilderness that is Yuma, Arizona, while checking on their water pipes and filling Lil Red with ATF.

And about every twenty-five seconds, Mom would ask, “Did you put enough transmission fluid in? Have you checked it?”

“No, Mom, I’m on the phone with you. It’ll get done.”

Eventually, I hang up with Mom, lock up their house and think it’s a miracle I even remembered I needed gas. And I’m off to Flying-J to pour some more money into the Jeep. However, buying gas yielded me the perfect opportunity to check to see if I had put enough transmission fluid in her.

After starting the gas pump, I unlatched the hood, and lifted it up against the windshield. I found a paper towel and pulled out the dip stick. I did the whole maneuver, wiped the dipstick off, stuck it in again, pulled it out, and was studying the level on the dipstick when I heard a low voice behind me.

“Checkin’ your oil? Is it low?”

“Oh, no, my transmission leaks, I was just making sure I put enough fluid in,” I said as I replaced the dipstick and made sure I had pushed it in all the way. Then I turned to see who had asked the question.

At the pump next to me, standing next to a gorgeous, maroon, dually pick-up truck, was the most butch woman I have ever seen. She was at least a foot taller than me, heavy-set, hair cut short, Nascar hat, down vest, the whole shebang.

I gave her a weak grin, and walked to the front of the Jeep to put the hood back down.

“My kinda woman, can work on her own rig,” she said in her low, almost gravelly voice.

My world froze. Was she hitting on me? How does one respond to that? I just stood there for maybe five whole seconds, without saying anything. Finally, time smacked me into action.

“Yep.” I slammed the hood a little too hard, and raced to take the gas nozzle out of the Jeep. Didn’t even matter if the tank was full, I was done buying gas. I clambered into the Jeep and ran away.

I think I can safely say that was my first lesbian experience. All for just $20 in gas….